The Ocean of Time by David Wingrove Page A

doorway of the church, a crowd of curious locals watching her go.
    Which leaves me with Krylenko and his sons.
    Krylenko is sitting there, in the very centre of the boat, on a long worn, wooden bench, staring up at me with a kind of mocking smile.
    ‘Well,’ he says, lifting his head sneeringly. ‘We’ve brought you here.’
    ‘So you have.’
    There’s a moment’s silence. His sons look to one another, as if not quite sure what’s going to happen next. Krylenko wants paying, of course. The bastard actually wants paying for putting me to such inconvenience – yes, and on top of what Ernst’s already given him – but he’s going to have to ask.
    ‘Well?’ he says, a slight impatience in his voice. ‘You pay us and we’ll unload the cart. Otherwise …’
    Otherwise what? You’ll steal my cart? Take all my goods?
    I meet his eyes. ‘Unload it and I’ll pay you.’
    He laughs and looks away, then spits into the river to his right. ‘You pay me.
Then
we unload.’
    I’m conscious of exactly where each of his sons is standing. In the last few hours I’ve watched them, noting how each one moves, attempting to gauge which of them I’d need to deal with first, for there’s always a best way of handling these situations, and these fellows always look to one of their number for their lead.
    Thus I’m acutely conscious of how Krylenko’s eldest straightens and turns slightly to face me. Beneath me the boat gently sways. That’s another factor, and it’s the one that finally decides me.
    ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘here’s the deal. Half now, half when the cart’s onshore.’
    Krylenko grins. ‘Done.’
    I dig three coins out of my leather purse, and hand them across, then, as the eldest holds the boat still, climb up on to the jetty.
    If he wanted, Krylenko could cast off and sail away with my cart and all my goods, only perhaps there are too many witnesses and even he knows he needs a reason – a refusal to pay, maybe – before he could get away with that and not be called a thief. Besides, he’s got what he wanted, an extra six dirhams, and for what?
    For being an arsehole and breaking his word
.
    I watch them untie the wheels of the cart, then lift it carefully onshore. Krylenko, meanwhile, has not moved. He still sits there, picking at his teeth and watching me.
    It’s his eldest now who puts his hand out, asking for the remainder of the money.
    I smile and shake my head. ‘Go fuck yourself.’
    It’s like he doesn’t hear me properly. Either that or he can’t believe I’ve just said that. ‘What?’ he says. Then, a moment later, ‘
What?
’
    ‘I said—’
    But I don’t have to repeat it. Finally, it’s sunk in, and as it does, he growls and takes a swing at me.
    I parry it easily, then watch his face crumple with pain as I knee him in the balls. He goes down on to his knees with a grunt.
    The other two are slow to follow up, and the youngest is on his back before he knows what happened, gasping for breath where I’ve punched him in the throat. The last of them yelps and makes to leap on to the boat, only I kick his legs out from under him and he falls between the boat and the jetty with a startled cry and a loud splash.
    Krylenko is on his feet now, his eyes wide and frightened. He thinks I’m coming after him, and, taking a step backward, he tumbles awkwardly over the bench seat. But I’m not going to sully my hands. Reaching down, I slip the knife from my belt and cut the mooring ropes, then heave the boat out with my foot.
    Slowly it drifts away, Krylenko’s second son, coughing and spluttering from his unexpected dip, trying to clamber on-board.
    The eldest son is behind me, wheezing, trying to get up off his knees and take another swing, but I’m not about to let him. Besides, I remember what his father said about Katerina, and how he laughed.
    I grab the collar of his smock and jerk him to his feet, then whirl him about and, with the help of the toe of my boot, launch him into the